Hot Town

The sea lion said to the faun,
“You want to stay away
from 42nd around Times Square.
All that ironic archival footage —
cheap booze — maudlin case studies of
ordinary Americans — amounts to
a mutant hybrid of clogs
and jellies, smacked up
with a giant ugly stick.”

“I’m not the most political
guy in this Absolut world,”
replied the faun, “I like facials,
waxing, manis and pedis,
mineral make-up, lash and
brow tinting, and vegan skin
products. I like the burly
bouncers checking IDs out
front, the recent suburban
excapees – and I’m interested
in Clinton or Obama right now.”

So the alleycats sing hallelujah
and become multiheaded animals
that seem funnier when you’re stoned.
Dark Empire. Meltdown.
Ethereality. Test your mental mettle:
Try a sour cherry, a sunflower
shoot, a sugar snap pea, or
a couple leaves of baby
arugula. Use some nautical
jargon – joist, fo’c’scle,
avast, poop deck – without
the all the motion sickness
and scurvy that tend to
accompany actual nautical
travel. You are filled with
the glorious aroma of
capitalism’s clutter: doll’s
heads, antique chemical bottles,
taxidermy, vintage dresses,
and human spines waving
among the thick seaweed
of the Bermuda triangle.

To say there’s a lot going
on in New York would be
an understatement. There’s
fuel consumption, deforestation,
free chips and salsa all night
long, mixing and scratching,
dark tentacles, acid-tongued
barflies, spaghetti, eraser
shavings, toothpaste, evil-
kid clichés — and a Victorian
ghost story pastiche of pot, porn,
punk rock, pro-wrestling, talking apes,
and (what else) pubic hair – done
up as a whitebox performance space
with lights, sound system, and
somnambulism.

Burlesque is hosted by Miss
Delirium: “I have long been
the whore of the nobility,
now I want to be the rabble’s
whore. Twig the Wonderkid
and the Astronettes spin
fist-pumping rock’n’roll, and
in a large skillet, I tablespoon
butter melts into a tablespoon
of olive oil at low heat. The wise
owl brews magical beer; turkey
sandwiches fail to put an end
to human suffering. Astroland’s
impending shutdown is the
perfect time to take trapeze
classes or have otherworldly
experiences with curving,
winding monstrosities like
the girl who used to doodle
unicorns and recently got
into vampires. She flips
and cooks for an additional
couple of minutes, continually
basting, unsettling you more
than dead pets or cold eyes.

There are many reasons
to leave the city in the
summertime: the heat, the stink,
the onslaught of tourists, the doll
filled with heroin, the bullet-headed
gangsters, the animated penguins,
the demonic hair extensions and kamikaze pilots,
the white roses, the avenging consciences,
etcetera.

Indeed, the market is a place for
curious eaters to educate their palates,
and the more you sample, the better
able you are to concoct a meal.
Wouldn’t you rather put up
with the TV you have and send
ten kids to school for 12 years?
Season liberally with salt and
pepper to taste imploring
language, compelling the audience
to accept its strange surroundings
and situations, bang and neck trims,
maxed-out credit cards and shuffle
and squelch of the sea.

The costumes are exaggeratedly
modern. An everyman, wandering
in the dunes of a seemingly
mythical land searching for
insect samples to collect
is soon himself trapped at the
bottom of a sand pit, captive
to an oddly quiescent woman.
The N Train slices through
the sea-air dusk. The coral lights
of the Wonder Wheel shimmer –
maybe for the last time.
Omitting the casualties, however,
doesn’t erase the endless
banality of poorly-paced
action and definitely-not-
clever one-liners. You have
so many different roads meeting
there, going in and out, underneath
the bridge, and people trying
to turn, cutting you off. They
don’t have bendy sex. A late
twist or is it? You have
to think about it in relationship
to the whole pelvis. Think
of the whole pelvis in space.
They are usually strong but,
like, tight. Late period zen
neo-noirs, familiar temporal
dissonance – it’s likeable but
somewhat doofy – inspiring
in a whole mess of ways,
a metaphor for the world’s
carnivorousness.

There’s this crazy vocoder-sounding
effect, a fuzzy amped bass, and
a posse of boys salivating over
the watermelon while a circle
of girls booty-dance, periodically
shrieking, “take off your dress!”
at each other. Wild tigers I have
known speak about state power
and the individual to an elfin-eared
downtown ingénue at the Laff Lounge
with a soy patty in tow. Where does
the rectus abdominus insert? We still
soak our pinto beans for a fresh,
rigorous and creative experience.
Masturbation does not “desensitize”
the penis. Little piles of ash,
one after the other, in the middle
of the empty street. Give edge to
beauty – bump into a tulip.
Some songs deal in slower tempos;
others explore glitzy hotels
in the littoral zone.

As I write this, it’s about
95 degrees outside, and the
humidity has climbed to
somewhere right around 200%.
The perfectly steamed stink of
a great black dune of
garbage bags — you’re not the
only dude in the world furiously
beating off. Assembled half-truths
still constitute an irrefutable
larger one: the animation
is breathtaking and the
quirky characters – head-slapping,
small but posh — are adorable.

The smoking ban basically
changed my life. Now
everything’s more reflective
than most horrors — semi-
membraneous with tidal synth
build-ups and viscous vocals.

All mood lighting and
shiny, the slanted spiral surplus is
everywhere – standing still or
ambulating – glittery with glam
and real natural wonders that
lift their petticoats and
expose their backsides
to the hecklers —
ending (still thirsty)
in forced guffaws, creating
a massive collision of …
oh nevermind.